


Mute

by Ourladyofresurrection



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bert McCracken - Freeform, Blowjobs, Bottom Frank Iero, Brendon Urie - Freeform, Dallon Weekes - Freeform, Eventual Smut, Frank Iero/Gerard Way - Freeform, Frerard, Jamia Nestor - Freeform, Lindsey Ballato - Freeform, M/M, Mikey Way - Freeform, Mute! Frank Iero, Original Characters - Freeform, Ryan Ross - Freeform, Top Gerard Way, angst with happy ending, frank iero - Freeform, gerard way - Freeform, handjobs, pete wentz - Freeform, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 04:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20129596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ourladyofresurrection/pseuds/Ourladyofresurrection
Summary: "BEFORE THE HAPPENING, my life was impossibly mundane.  My universe was unfathomably small, strung together by a few measly, attenuated strings of fate ready to snap at any given moment.The sinew of the bone in the skeletal shell that was my life was fading fast, and quickly it would have rendered me as stuck and brittle as that desiccated skull we saw in biology class. In other words, my life was oh so tragically stagnant, and I was the bug caught in the web of complexities. The measly, preyed-upon bug, stuck for eternity.And then I met Frank."________________________When Gerard is assigned an English project in which he has to write a compelling essay, he becomes determined to get the best grade in the class. No more 'just average Gerard,' no. He was determined to win. When he crosses paths with the new kid, a selectively mute boy named Frank Iero, he knows exactly how to win over the teacher's praise."Gerard Way, the boy who got a mute kid to talk," he could practically see it headlining every newspaper across New Jersey.Frank was just a test subject, Gerard couldn't possibly bring himself to care about him, let alone fall for him....Right?





	Mute

Chapter One

Song: Muzzle-Smashing Pumpkins (Gerard's theme)

Gerard's P.O.V

Tuesday, October 11.

* * *

**BEFORE THE HAPPENING**, my life was impossibly mundane.My universe was unfathomably small, strung together by a few measly, attenuated strings of fate ready to snap at any given moment.

The sinew of the bone in the skeletal shell that was my life was fading fast, and quickly it would have rendered me as stuck and brittle as that desiccated skull we saw in biology class. In other words, my life was oh so tragically stagnant, and I was the bug caught in the web of complexities. The measly, preyed-upon bug, stuck for eternity.

Until that one blessed, invigorating day that was to me as water was to a man dying of thirst in the middle of a month-long drought.

The day I broke free from the entrapping cycle. The day I saw one of my own. Or rather, I very well thought I had. But for this to make any sense, I suppose I'd have to backtrack to 10:00 AM October 11th, second period, Mrs Gallagher's English class.

* * *

It was a disgustingly boring morning, having gone from one 75 minute interval of terribleness to another with only slightly differentiating subject matters. The room was filled with various sounds; a pencil tapping on the desk on my right, the sound of paper crumpling as a note was passed on my left, the quiet dull hum of the radiator through the walls, and Mrs Gallagher's tiresome voice cutting through the air like one of those hot knives.

They were pretty wicked, though knives often are, and I can't help but wonder what it would be like to be stabbed by one. Would it burn? I heard that it would instantly cauterize the wound, rendering the attack ultimately useless. I'm not sure if the science behind it is entirely sound, though. My musings were interrupted by the voice of my English teacher, jarring me from my daydreams, leaving that semi-lethargic, terrible feeling one gets when such a thing happens. Back to reality.

Disappointing, really.

I caught her in the middle of a sentence and I can't seem to fathom why my brain would only decide to tune in now.

"—And I expect you'll have your thesis statement by Thursday—" she was interrupted by the horrendous squeaking of chairs as twenty-two students shouldered their backpacks, ready to book it, seeing as the bell was set to ring in a minute.

"and that's this Thursday!" she shouts over the noise, "don't you forget it!"

But the class has already filed out the door in a hoard of utter disarray. Like spooked cattle, I remark to myself, calmly walking towards the door.

"Gerard," she stopped me, "I expect you'll come to Thursday's class with a statement?"

I smiled my sweetest 'ass-kissing' smile, "Oh, of course. In fact, I already have one in mind!"

Lucky I was that she didn't make me elaborate on that last bit, because as I walked out the door, I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do.

* * *

The cafeteria was in its usual state of muddled chaos; loud voices that melded together until they sounded like gibberish, people laughing far too obnoxiously for it to be genuine, I even had to dodge an airborne Twinkie that was traversing through the air, apparently on a one-way course to my forehead.

It was fine, I wasn't sitting here anyway. I never did. In the past three years, every day for 540 days for seventy-five minutes a day, I have sat in the exact same spot; in the community centre, right against the far-most right pillar in the centre of the room. It's the optimal place; you can see everything and everyone in the middle. A couple thousand years ago, this would have been key to my survival.

And why the abundance of right-alignment? Easy. Left is evil. Un-optimal. Distasteful. I have long since perfected the means of navigation and I refuse to alter it now, of all times.

So why, when I made my way to my usual spot, my spot, I saw someone else sitting in my place? Or slouched, more like. His head was down, but from what I could see, he had shaggy brown hair that fell over his face, and his hands, remarkably, were sheathed in skeleton print gloves. Why do people feel the need to relocate every minute? Why would you abandon a perfectly good spot? Does nobody understand the vitality of a commonplace seating arrangement? These questions ping-ponged through my brain as I stalked towards the boy, forcing my mouth into a half-smile. Cagey, that's the impression they gave off, and it reeked in the air like something wicked. But never mind that- the boy. _The_ Boy. The Boy Who Was Sitting In My Seat, to be specific.

He was a freshman, by the looks of it. Or at least if his short stature was any indication. I decided not to go full Roman Empire on him from the get-go, pitying him slightly.

He flinched as I sidled up beside him, yanking out an earbud as I stared expectantly at him. He looked up at me through the mop of hair covering his one eye, and I got a good look at his face. His eyes were this weird brown-green. What do they call that again? Hazel? Yes, that's it. He had a lip ring which he flicked his tongue over nervously before averting his eyes.

"You're in my spot," I state.

He doesn't say anything back, just sort of sits there and stares at the ground.

Great, not only was my spot stolen but by a non-verbal thief at that. Of all days? Doesn't the Universe know it's a Tuesday, A.K.A the optimal day of the week? And 12 degrees Celsius outside, the best temperature?

Damn Universe. Always conspiring against me.

"Look," I say, my voice surprisingly gentle, "Would you mind moving? It is very important I sit exactly there, you see."

He waited exactly eight seconds before his shoulders slumped and he got up, disappearing so fast I didn't even have time to register it. Something tells me this boy doesn't want to be seen. Something tells me this boy is used to wanting to disappear and is damn good at it too. Suddenly I felt slightly nauseated, something like guilt gnawing at my innards. I don't feel guilty. What was happening? All at once, the air to the room changed. All the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and the atmosphere turned maroon.

"Ayyyy G-man! What's up, my good bitch?"

My friend Lyn-Z slapped me on the back with her free hand, the other one nursing an impressive sized hamburger. She grinned maniacally, stretching her ruby red lips across her pale face, black eyes sparkling mischievously.

"Saw you talkin' to the new blood. What's up with that?" she cocked her eyebrow, biting into her lunch.

"New...blood?" I questioned.

She frowned, "You know, G-dawg. Like, the new kid? Weird as fuck, man. Did he like put some witchcraft on you or something? Because I know a guy that—"

"What?" I interjected, putting my hand out, "no, Lindz, we're not hexing that boy."

She frowned, "Well of course not, if we hex a guy who hexed you then his attempts at hexing will end in bizarre ways, which will then affect you—"

"Lyn-Z—"

"Fine," she sighed, flopping down on the ground, "you're no fun, Way."

She squinted at me suspiciously, "You were awfully nice to that kid back there."

"He's a freshman."

"Oh, I know. Looks like the little runt of the litter."

Ignoring her slight jab at him, I bite my lip, "He's quiet, isn't he?"

"What gave you that impression?" she grinned teasingly.

I glared at her.

"Okay, okay! No need to lynch me, G-man. Real talk though, I heard the kid just moved here. Rumour on the block is he's a mute."

Something scraped deep against my stomach lining. Indigestion, probably. Even though I hadn't eaten so much as a crumb today. I offhandedly thought of an article I'd read last week about hidden stomach parasites, shuddering slightly.

"Mute? Like, born that way or—"

"Oh no!" she shook her head dismissively, "'Kid can talk, or so I'm told. It's more of a mental thing, you know?"

I nodded, pushing my sandwich away, my appetite suddenly gone. Poor kid. I found myself empathizing with him, which was absurd. I can be compassionate, but why take on the emotions of someone else? Much less the emotions of someone you just met? It just doesn't make logical sense.

"Do you ever wonder what goes on inside his head?" I blurt out.

She narrowed her eyes, stopping mid-chew, "Not particularly. We just met, and so did you."

"Right," I nod, "totally. It's just...kinda weird you know? I wish I could know what's going on inside his head."

"But you can't."

"Unless—" I started.

"Unless what?"

"Unless I somehow get him to speak."

"What?"

"Lyn-Z, think of it," I start talking faster, standing up quickly, "Gerard Way gets the mute boy to talk- that'd totally get me an 'A' for my English project!"

She looked at me as if I had spontaneously sprouted a tentacle from my left eyeball, "You're insane."

"Am I, Lyn-Z?" I question, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, "or am I just sane enough?"

"You're out of your damn mind!" she called as I hurried toward the door.

But I paid no attention to her scepticism because for once, I had somewhere else to be.


End file.
